


Draw Me O'er Your Burning Heart

by Suvroc (cuteandillusion)



Series: Harrowing of Hell [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), End of the World, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Pillow Talk, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Stop (Good Omens), Sharing a Bed, Tenderness, What comes after, ok to podfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteandillusion/pseuds/Suvroc
Summary: Tons of inner thoughts as Aziraphale and Crowley navigate the bus ride back to London, the body swap, and what the future holds.Author's Note: I think everyone in the world should write a GO bus stop fic. This is mine.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Harrowing of Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586740
Comments: 46
Kudos: 388





	1. Just a Little Detour

Sun was setting on the final day, after the apocalypse was averted.

That night, they sat together on a bench, sharing a bottle of wine.

“We’re on our own side. Like Agnes said…”

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening. His face had fallen into an expression of displeased acceptance. It was true. For sure, this time, he thought. Well, pretty much for sure. He couldn’t go back to Heaven, could he? They saw him as a traitor. Was he? Maybe he was. After all this time. After all he had done. All the good he worked for. All that he tried to do. Had he not tried hard enough? Only to be discorporated after talking to the Voice of God, after asking to avoid war and being told in no uncertain terms “no”.

Well, he _had_ turned away from his God-given duty to fight, to join his platoon of angels and go marching into battle - with or without a flaming sword. Or, well, a body. That was, he let himself frown thoughtfully, fairly treacherous. 

Did he want to go back to heaven? Well now, he had sort of answered his own question. He had been there, and he had left – on his own. At his own volition. To try to save the world as he knew it.

By doing something that angels are not known to do.

Oh dear. Maybe it was just him and the demon at his side, now hailing the Oxford-to-London bus.

And they had done it, actually. Avoided war. Saved the world. Together. He had told Crowley finally – called him after the talking-to-God thing went exactly as Crowley said it would. Aziraphale had realized that the demon was right.

But Crowley had been wrong for wanting to run away, hadn’t he?

No. He was smart. That had been his “Plan B” – to escape. Crowley hadn't found the Antichrist, and so he needed a “Plan B”. He wanted a war just about as much as Aziraphale did, so “Plan B” for Crowley wasn't fighting on the side of hell - it was running away. Off to the stars. So… why was he still on Earth when Aziraphale freestyle dived back to England to tell him where Adam was? 

_“Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”_

Oh my.

Aziraphale started, physically taken aback by the realization. At the time, he had been concentrating on getting the information through the thin veil between heaven and Earth, and had only paused really for etiquette’s sake before moving onto the important matters at hand. But now, as he took a second to think, it struck him like a thunderbolt.

Crowley hadn’t wanted to run away. He’d wanted to run away... with Aziraphale. 

And how in Her name had Aziraphale ended up there, in that pub or wherever it was? Why was he drawn there, like a magnet, to Crowley? Well, in part he was sure it was his own insurance, his own “Plan B” in case the “find a willing body” thing didn't work out. If he couldn't make it to Tadsfield, he had to see if Crowley could, because...

Because Crowley was his partner. It never entered his mind that they wouldn't both try to stop the apocalypse together.

They boarded the bus, and Crowley took the window seat. Aziraphale, with no more than a moment to decide, reached across and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s as he slid into the seat next to him.

Crowley didn’t pull away. In fact, he didn’t move, not for a good length of time. Neither of them did. Finally, Aziraphale felt a little squeeze and he sighed, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. Crowley fanned his fingers out, letting Aziraphale’s fall into the spaces in between and knitting them together tightly.

The bus inexorably turned towards London. 

“I,” Aziraphale swallowed. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Save it,” Crowley said, not unkindly. He turned, and Aziraphale could feel him take a long look at him from behind those shaded glasses. “We’re not out of the woods yet. Right now, we need to be concerned with what’s still coming. You heard that bull’s-pizzle Gabriel. They blame us for them not getting their war. Mark my words, this will not sit well with heaven or hell.”

Aziraphale tried to concentrate on what he knew was true and not be distracted by his still-unspoken apology, or by the heat on his palm where it pressed against Crowley’s, or by what Crowley had called the archangel.

“Do you think,” Crowley whispered, after a moment, “my lot would come for both of us?”

That snapped him out of his haze and he responded instinctually with a “no.” Then, “I think the angels want to make an example out of me. Er. What do you think hell would do?”

“Oh, I don’t want to think about it really. Something awful..… holy water for me I’d guess. They’d find a way to get some somehow. Pretty sure they want to be rid of me, and that’s the best way to do it. I’d hazard a guess that’s what they'd,” he glanced upwards, “do to me as well.”

“I’m not sure they hate you that much. They’d be more likely to use you against me…” Aziraphale said in a rush, then swallowed. 

He hadn’t meant to speak that fear aloud.

Crowley’s voice was slow and tight. “What do you mean?”

“I, I, I… I was just thinking. Something you could do. Like hellfire.”

Crowley was silent for a long while, then eased back into the bus seat, still holding his hand. “I sort of wondered the same thing. If they’d somehow find water you’d blessed…”

The idea was so distasteful, so vile, Aziraphale wanted to cry out. Crowley turned away and looked out the window, but his fingers tightened their grip again. So much hatred. He heard a _thunk_ as Crowley’s forehead bumped against the window. Watching him in the reflection, he could see the creases around his eyes deepen as he squeezed them shut.

They rode on in silence, past the extinguished M25.

“Crowley. I’m a bit frightened.”

“No.” The word bit through the air.. “We will think of something. We will. I promise. We’ll get through this.” Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley tilted his chin down to peer at him with naked eyes from above the rims of his sunglasses. “Ok?”

Aziraphale nodded. What a horrible mess. As Crowley settled back into his seat, his knee leaned against Aziraphael’s, a second distinct press of connection, weighted and real and the only thing that seemed to make any sense just then.

They arrived at Crowley's building; it must have been almost midnight, at a bus stop that hadn’t existed a moment before. Aziraphrale stood to let him out, but Crowley refused to release his hand, so they left the bus together, Crowley descended the steps first, pulling the angel behind him. Strangely, a strong odor of raw seafood hung in the air outside as the bus rumbled away. They reached the building’s entryway, and a doorman greeted them at the lobby.

“’Evening Mr. Crowley.

“Evening David.”

“May I say I’m glad to see you. Worried you might have been affected by any of the strange things that've been happening.”

“No not affected, affecting. Everything alright here? With you?”

“Oh yes. Had a bit of fish rain earlier, but that seems to have cleared up. Evening sir,” David the doorman tipped his hat, acknowledging Aziraphael. Aziraphale, who had been a bit awestruck by Crowley’s familiar banter with the boy (well, not boy in the human sense as the man had to be in his 30s) smiled at him as he was all but dragged through the lobby to the elevator.

“Lovely to meet you,” he said and entered the lift. The doors slid shut. “He seems a nice chap.”

“Yeah. Doorguy's great. Never bothersome. Little too prideful about his job, which I admire. Oh shit.”

Suddenly the elevator halted, and Aziraphale felt his stomach drop. It took only a momentary comment of dismay to realize that it had been stopped by Crowley himself.

“Hey. So. About that holy water.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop even further. 

“The stuff you gave me. It worked, ok?” He sniffed by way of interjection. “Laid a trap for a demon and it worked. But there may be, something when we get to my flat, ok? Bit of a mess.”

“Oh,” was all he could muster. His fingers were being crushed in Crowley’s narrow pointed bony grip. He was standing so near he could see the demon was trembling. In all their years traveling in circles around the world (and around each other), he’d seen Crowley angry: he’d seen him frustrated and sad and ecstatic and upset. But the only time he’d seen him wear his nerves on his sleeve like this was a few brief hours ago, when they prepared to stare down Satan himself. So. Crowley had destroyed one of his own, with a gift (of sorts, if you could call it that) from an angel. If there had been any more question about the “traitor” moniker, that sort of sealed the deal.

“I seem to have missed quite a lot,” Aziraphale said quietly. 

Crowley’s brow wrinkled, his eyebrows peaked. He drew their clasped hands together up to his chest. “You have no idea.” He sighed. “I swear to you, when this is all over, I’ll tell you everything.” Then he swallowed, and half-grinned. “Bit of incentive.”

“I do think that continued existence is quite enough motivation, but I’ll hold you to that.”

The elevator grunted in agreement and started to move again. It stopped between the 12 and 14 floors and the doors slid open.

Aziraphale was thankful for the warning, for the feeling of disarray hit him immediately, and he heard Crowley hiss with an intake of breath at his side. With barely a thought he snapped a miracle and vanished the darkened damp cloth to a long-abandoned crypt in the depths of Paris. It was the best he could manage on so little notice.

“Whatd’ya do?”

“The holy water has returned to the ether. The remains have been entombed.” He looked over at Crowley. “You may still want to get the floor professionally cleaned, but it should be safe.”

There was more unspoken gratitude which was swallowed down as Crowley slid out and into the steel and mahogany hallway. Aziraphale again followed.

They entered the apartment and walked down the darkened hall. Crowley hung a hard right and it appeared they were in the kitchen, although not a single gleaming appliance looked to have been ever asked to do anything but look good.

“Need anything? Drink or something?”

He did, desperately, but there wasn’t time. “No, I'm alright thank you.” Finally, he loosed his hand from Crowley’s grip, the demon seeming reluctant to let go, but finally relinquishing it. 

“Fine. Yes. Well. We can talk about that later as well.” He pulled his glasses off, tossing them aside, and letting them clatter across the countertop. Aziraphale perched himself uncomfortably on one of the barstools as Crowley glanced at his watch. “We should probably get some sort of plan in place for tomorrow.” Wearily he opened a drawer and withdrew a wine key. “Look, it has been an extraordinarily long day.” He paused, looked around for a bottle. “Oh right. You said…ug. Force of habit.” He put the wine key down. “This is what I mean. We're gonna have to be vigilant.”

“Alright. So. What do we know?”

“We know that we have some time since the armies have to be called down. We know that both Prince Beelzebub and that prat Gabriel agree we are traitors and need to be made an example of. Anything else might just be assumptions.”

“So I think we are both assuming that your side will come for you and mine for me.”

“And that we aren't talking a light slap on the wrist.”

“No – nor a stern note.” Aziraphale shifted on his seat and sighed. “It's a pity we can't switch places.”

“Heh. Yeah. You’d probably enjoy a bracing shower of holy water,” he said darkly.

“Hmm! And I’d be happy to let you take a blast furnace of hellfire for me, or whatever they have planned.” Suddenly, he bolted upright off the stool, and Crowley, who had in fact decided he did need a drink staggered back, nearly dropping his miracled Scotch. _"Choose your faces wisely, for soon enough you will be playing with fire!”_

“Wh. hut?” He paused, reading in his companion's face, a seeking look passing behind those yellow eyes. “Wait. Oh! OH! You…. You clever angel! Do you really think we could?”

“We must! I mean, do you think you could do me?”

A quick expression of barely contained mirth quirked a corner of his mouth. “You… you might want to rephrase that but yeah, just might have to practice a little. You?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Thoughtful, he climbed back onto the stool. “How do you propose we should, well, you know. I mean, they are daft but I think they'd recognize a glamor like we did for young master Warlock pretty easily.”

“Yeah. We have to go a little deeper than a bit of dress-up.” Crowley began pacing, the ample pour of liquor sloshing in his glass as his free arm swung at his side. Aziraphale had to shake his head so as not to be mesmerized, as Crowley’s stride always seemed to have way more weaving side to side sway than was absolutely necessary. He still found himself utterly distracted and missed that he was even talking until the demon paused, took a slug of his drink and said on the exhale, “so yeah. I think we should marry.”

“Excuse me?”

“Were you even listening?”

“Well, I…” No use. His brain was more muddled than he cared to admit. It had been a long day, hadn't it? “No I'm sorry, what are you on about?”

“Concentrate!” he vanished his now empty glass. “This isn't just life or death we're discussing, this is ultimate removal from the universe!”

“I know I know,” _Don't wear such tight pants then, and stop walking like a bloody serpent._

“I said, now that you have had the experience of possession, but assuming that demons can't possess angels, and vice versa, I said we should marry our two corporeal forms and swap bodies.”

Aziraphale tried to follow, but got lost somewhere along the way. He shook his head. “How in the world are we meant to do that?”

“I don't know!” Crowley yelled in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “These are theories! I've never done this before! But,” he sighed, dropping his hands heavily to the hard marble countertop. “I think we would just, y’know, touch? And then sort of,” he gestured vaguely, “move over.”

They sat in his cold, pristine and unused kitchen as the clock struck 12. Aziraphale thought back to the mashup of he and Madame Tracy, how bad he’d felt at barging into her the way he did. Souls did not usually like sharing space, nor were the envelopes that held them used to being occupied by more than one, regardless of how willing they seemed to be (and to be brutally honest, the only way he had discovered Tracy was by following that other gent in there so the poor lady had three roomers for a time.) But now that he understood more or less how it worked, he thought he could be better equipped to do whatever it was that Crowley was proposing.

“Well, it still sounds frightfully complicated, but I say we do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to try? We also probably should practice doing each oth.... I mean, mimicking each others mannerisms, yes?” He held out his right hand and Crowley stared at it as if it were a dead fish from the sidewalk. Aziraphale twiddled his fingers a little.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Just be careful in there, ya? Pretty attached to this face.”

He reached out and, unlike the other times they had shook on a deal: the Arrangement, the Godfathers decision, Crowley seemed to let his fingers slide more gently into Aziraphale’s hand. He relished the chance to concentrate on the feeling, on the thin fingers and pinsharp nails, on the snakeskin-warm palm. He liked the feel, liked the smoothness with which he moved, and instead of grasping Crowley’s hand as he would for a normal handshake, he ‘pulled’ it in further, feeling the pieces of him – the very atoms – falling into him.

He microscopically tiptoed up the strong forearm, narrow wrist, feeling out the angles of the demon and fighting not to try to smooth them. He glanced up and met Crowley’s shining yellow eyes, seeing a look of surprise that was rare to catch. The sight was discombobulating, confusing to whether it was in the Earthly plane or somewhere internal. For a moment, he had the strange feeling he was looking at a mirror, and yet he felt more than saw Crowley attempt to speak. In a rush to turn around or answer, two things completely impossible in the intermediary state his form currently found itself in, they Touched – in a trueness that was raw and not used to being contacted in any way, shape, or form, and the searing heat (or was it cold? A lack of oxygen or a surfeit of it?) burned into him like a lit fuse.

Good god, he hoped they didn’t explode.

He ‘pulled’ back in shock, and it felt, ugh, like he’d been regurgitated. 

“What you do that for!” Crowley yelped, shaking his hand and rubbing his wrist.

“Sorry – there was, well… that was You in there.”

“Yeah? Duh! What did you expect? Bloody hell, angel, don’t go mucking about on the atomic level if you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“You said to just move over!” he cried out, exasperated. He felt stupid and childish, and looked shamefully to the side. “I'm sorry. It surprised me is all.”

“Hey. Whu...” Crowley struggled with the words, “no. I didn't mean to yell at you.” He sighed and Aziraphale slumped back against the monolithic refrigerator, feeling wretched. “I just, here.” Narrow hands grasped his shoulders; he felt a warmth flow from the tips of the fingers, gripping him firmly.

“YOU stay there; we just switch the bodies.”

He felt the full length of Crowley roll up against him, like a wave sweeping over him, pulling him helplessly under and, oh! it felt wonderful. He audibly caught his breath. “Shhh. Let's try it like this,” Crowley’s voice rumbled, and he wasn’t quite sure what his body was doing or where in time or space he actually was. But there was a light. A soul-light that burned behind his eyes, and he felt them both, for an instant, as one.

And they did not explode, but he knew that they would not be able to hold that position for more than a fraction of a millisecond; the feeling was too intense.

It didn’t hurt. He thought that was important.

All they did was slip aside, letting matter pass by them like an intricate ethereal dance move, like polite and gentle beings. Tip of the hat. Please and thank-you. Mind how you go, dear!

And then he opened his eyes. And he was Crowley.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

A wink from his own face. “And you ain’t kidding this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come [talk to me on Tumblr](https://suvroc.tumblr.com/) :)


	2. The Very Last Night of the Rest of Their Lives

They spent the next hour partially in concentration, partially in frustration, and the rest of the time in general reflection, trying out walking, talking, and conducting themselves in the guise of one another. Finally, after breaking into exasperated groans for the umpteenth time trying to stop Aziraphale from nervously wringing his hands and Crowley from swinging his hips like a pendulum, Crowley said:

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep? Really Crowley?”

“I don't want to say this might be my last chance to get a bit of shuteye for a while, but…” he shrugged. “I want to be ready, and honestly, if I sleep tonight, it will help get that out of my system so I can focus on more important things, ya? So. No judgement.”

“Alright alright. So. Swap back?” 

He nodded. “Let’s… try this way again.” He looked up, a little warily. “Now that we’ve had some practice.” He held out his hand and Aziripahle-as-Crowley nodded and took it. The dance move was easier this time, and they both took a step back as their bodies rearranged themselves. “Yeah. So. We need to leave here in a few hours. I think it best we don’t arrive at the park together. I’ll head over to your side of town first.”

“So I should just….” 

“Oh.” _Shit_ , Crowley thought through his exhaustion – and he could feel exhaustion when he wanted to, and he could think of no better time than after the day he’d had. But now… he had an angel in his flat he had to put somewhere. “Um. There may be some books in there. And a couch. So.” Looking into the depth of Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley could see the now-spoken fear still remained. And there was a part of him that wanted to reach out. To soothe. To comfort. To try to, what, save him again? He blinked. “I’ll, uh, be in the bedroom. Over… right over there. If you need anything. But I’ll be up in a little bit so, uh, ‘night angel.”

He beat a hasty retreat down the hallway to the darkness of his bedroom and didn’t look back.

After miracling into his black silk pajamas and crawling under the covers, Crowley allowed himself the briefest moment of recollection. Aziraphale had taken his hand. It had felt so good. So right, to have him cross that bridge. He would’ve waited until the end of the world for him, he knew that. Well... he had. That bastard. He’d made him wait until the end of the world and more! He smiled to himself and curled his body up and around his hand, hugged it to his chest. What a silly stupid thing, he thought, as he drifted to unconsciousness.

It didn’t last long.

“Crowley.”

“Hru?”

“Are you asleep?

“Yeah. But erh.”

“I’ve read all the books. I thought it better not to miracle up anymore. Just in case, well.” His hushed voice trailed off.

Crowley twisted under the sheet to see Aziraphale silhouetted in the doorway to his bedroom. His hands knitted invisible knots of worry, and he looked lost.

Oh hell. So this was happening.

He reached a hand out from under the bedclothes and patted the mattress.

Aziraphale tread carefully into the room. Crowley scooched slightly over and without a word, Aziraphale alighted on the edge like a bird. “My mind won’t quiet. I looked for some tea and couldn’t find any. Honestly. That alone is a travesty, but to have such a beautiful kitchen and no tea and again, someone might still be monitoring my frivolous miracles.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, startling Aziraphale into silence. There, next to the bed, on the nightstand, a perfect cuppa. In a steaming mug. Just the right size and contour. Just the way he likes it. “No one monitoring me,” he grumbled.

He could tell Aziraphale’s eyes widened in delight at the sight, despite the darkness, and it warmed Crowley, like a coal in his chest. The angel adjusted himself on the bed. There were pillows there to prop himself up. He folded his legs up as well, and Crowley noted he’d removed his shoes. He wiggled a bit, settling, and then picked up the mug and took a sip.

“Th… well, this is very…” He spoke haltingly, then let himself relax an iota and held the cup close to his face. When he started again, it was on a different chain of thought. “So this is where you sleep?”

Crowley wanted at the same time to laugh and cry. _Yes angel, this is where I sleep, and no. I’m not an aardvark yet._ Instead he said, “welcome to the boudoir. Wish it weren’t under such sorry circumstances.” Erup. Did he just say that? Well, whatever. Aziraphale had taken his hand, he reminded himself. And now, somehow, someway, he was drinking tea in bed with him. 

“You should try it.”

“What, sleep? 6,000 years, do you know how many nights that is? Of course I’ve tried it; it’s rubbish. You just lie there and do nothing.”

The serpent stretched out languidly on his back under the slippery sheets and folded his hands over his chest, kitting his fingers together. “Well, you just don’t know the trick.”

“There’s a trick?”

“Whh…u… yeah.”

“What’s the trick.”

“You have to be wholly human.”

Aziraphale knitted his brow. “What?”

“Comprehensively corporeal. All the way down to the… underpants. I mean if you don’t have the threat of being rousted by a full bladder, what’s even the point?”

Aziraphale squinted at him in the darkness, then seemed to resign himself to settling back against the pillows. “Rubbish.”

The room was incredibly dark and quiet, cool as a cave. He wasn’t quite sure what the angel was doing in this setting where he obviously looked uncomfortably out of place, but also, there was no way in any realm Crowley was going to ask.

“I couldn’t help thinking about the bookshop. Do you suppose anything survived?”

Crowley felt his heart seize at the word. “I dunno. Was a bit distracted. Possibly. You may just need to restock. Plenty of time for that.”

“I’m sorry for chattering your ears off.”

“It's alright,” he said. “I like talking to you. One of my favorite things actually, not that I’d ever tell you that.”

Lord Satan he was tired. Not his body – that was easy enough to fix. What he felt was a deep abiding core-soaking exhaustion. He didn’t want to think any more. “Look. I can get you more books if you’d like. Just say the word.”

The form next to him made a little shimmy of a movement, then slid down to lie on his side, rumpling his jacket horribly in the process. “No thank you. I don’t feel like reading.”

There was no noise to be had except Crowley’s inconsequential and unnecessary breath. He could see of course, despite the darkness, but Aziraphale’s face was unreadable.

“Is this alright?” the angel asked.

Crowley let the word become breath. “Yeah.”

“There’s a song that is running through my head right now. It’s bringing me comfort. There is a line I want to share with you. May I?”

“What’s the song?”

Aziraphale’s eyes did not waver. “It’s called All I Ask. Have you heard it?”

“Mmm.” Crowley had. “Adele? Not my cup of tea but, er, lovely voice.”

“Oh yes.”

Aziraphale’s hands were twisting into the sheets. Crowley watched him, fascinated, until he remembered he’d been asked a question. “Er…bur. Yeah. Go ahead.”

Aziraphale blinked. “ _Why don't we just play pretend, like we're not scared of what's coming next._ ”

Crowley could see right through him. That was not the line. But instead of calling him on it, he unfolded his right hand from where it sat upon his chest, and he reached over. Crossing the divide. Crossing the years and decades and centuries. He reached over and he took the angel firmly by the hand and drew it back to his chest. He settled it there beneath his own, over his silly pounding “wholly human” heart. He put his other hand over it as well. Held him there. Firmly. Solidly. Like he was the only one who mattered.

Aziraphale gasped.

“Is this alright?” Crowley asked, ready to loose his grip at a moment’s call. The warm soft fingers curled slightly against the thin fabric of his sleepwear.

“Yes.” He whispered.

“Good,” growled Crowly, and stroked the back of his hand with his thumb.

The singular coldness of the flat lifted only slightly, the tomb-like darkness became a bit more plush, and the narrow vision of the dim, unforeseen future took a moment to make itself scarce. Aziraphale’s hand was like warm water, like a rose petal or a lamb’s ear (the plant or the real thing). It was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever touched, or at least he let himself believe that tonight.

“I need to tell you something,” Aziraphale said quietly, his fingers moving to find purchase in the spaces between the buttons of Crowley’s pajama top.

“No you don’t.” Crowley said, and rolled his head to the side.

Good lord. He was so close. He was right there. (Well of course he was.) Crowley let his eyes rake up and down his body in a way that was almost always hidden by his dark glasses. “Don’t say it.” His eyes steadied on the dark pools that were the angel’s, and he focused fiercely. “You don’t have to say anything. This is not the last of anything. Ok?” He pressed down on his chest and inhaled deeply imaging the angel’s fingers marking his skin, branding him with hot fingerprints. “Ok?” he asked again. 

“Ok.” Aziraphale sighed.

“Now, you don’t have to sleep. But I do. And then we’ll get up and do what needs to be done.”

Aziraphale nodded but didn’t move. Didn’t rise to prop himself up on the bed, didn’t remove his hand, didn’t even have the courtesy to close his eyes. Finally Crowley had to wrench his gaze away and close his own eyes.

He lay there as fear crept back into his thoughts. He didn’t like fear. Not in humans, not in himself, certainly not in his angel.

Crap. Don’t think of him like that.

God.

Double crap. Don’t bring Her into it.

But that’s what fear did. Fear was a whirling dervish dancing merrily over all your plans and stamping them down, destroying them, crushing them with weighty things like ANXIETY and GUILT and STRESS. Until you were so tired, so very tired that you reached out for the strongest thing you knew for help, for stability, for comfort. Sometimes that was ritual (that’s what he was trying with going to sleep). Habit. Sometime it was, ugh. Faith.

It’s only the lonely - the desperate - who pray.

Fuck it.

“ _Hey_ ,” he thought. “ _So I know you don’t listen to me anymore. But shit’s bad. Shit’s real bad. So tomorrow, when it all hits the fan, I just._ ” He gritted his teeth. “ _Keep him safe, ya? It’s not me. I mean, if it were up to me I’d do everything within my power to bring the gates of heaven crashing down – but this isn’t about me. P…_ ” his mind stuttered. “ _Pleasssse._ ”

There was, as always, no discernable answer. But Crowley didn’t even realize that, for he had, at that moment, fallen into a deep, healing, and utterly dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [All I Ask (lyrics)](https://genius.com/Adele-all-i-ask-lyrics). You can guess what line Crowley thought Aziraphale was thinking. I'm still not sure.
> 
> Please come [talk to me on Tumblr](https://suvroc.tumblr.com/) :)


	3. Back to the Bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is a first kiss fic now ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Special thanks to [BRNZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRNZ/pseuds/BRNZ) for helping review the previous chapters. Getting Crowley's choice in Scotch correct is all due to you!
> 
> EDIT: HOLY CATS - I commissioned [ lonicera-caprifolium](https://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com/) to illustrate the final scene and am knocked out by the results. Click to the end to see **our angel and demon on the couch** \- these two just look so in love I can barely stand it.
> 
> \---

“That was lovely,” Aziraphale said as they exited the Ritz. He paused to see if Crowley had anything to say about that, but his companion only smiled at him. So he prompted, “what’s next?”

Crowley’s head swiveled as he gazed up at the early evening sky. “Well, that’s the question really.”

They both stood for a moment, taking in the world that had not ended in all its London splendor. Aziraphale felt fat and happy and ever so thankful that they were here to admire it.

For their plan had worked. Somehow, some way, with divine intervention, or demonic, or just fuck-all-doesn’t-that-just-take-the-biscuit luck. “Would you care to come back to the bookshop?” he asked after a breath. 

Crowley, hands in his pockets, “hmf”’ed noncommittally, but nodded to the doorman who summoned a cab. They were Bentleyless, so it was either that or walk. 

They sat in the back in comfortable silence for the short duration of the ride, something that felt new and refreshing. So often in the past, the space between them had felt so bow-strung that the nervous atmosphere had to be filled with words to cushion the tightness. Aziraphale didn’t mind one bit, as there was always something to chat about. He now had to admit that, throughout the ages, he had held onto stories and thoughts, observations and experiences with the sole desire to recall them at a later date with Crowley. A memory bubbled up of the night before, when a very exhausted demon had admitted as much as well. But now, with the threat of “I’ll never speak to you again” removed, the ability to relax and enjoy simply existing together was just as nice. Like a glass of cold water. Or a lime sorbet.

“Right here, thanks,” Crowley said at the driver when they arrived, paying the fare. 

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, disembarking, “I daresay my wine reserves are a bit depleted. Certainly nothing to celebrate saving the world with. I may have one last bottle of ‘Jardin de Babylone’, but you don’t like the sweet stuff.”

“no…”

“My goodness,” Aziraphale said, gazing up. “it looks better than ever! You said it would…” and he turned and saw Crowley’s lips pressed tightly together in a straight line, and he didn’t need to ask if he was alright; he needed to tell him: “It’s alright.”

They stood before A.Z FELL AND Co., and the world seemed to have paused. Not in a demonic stopped-time way, but in a very human, heartbeat-halting, this-could-go-one-of-two-ways way.

Crowley muttered, “you know on the bus - what you did..?”

Aziraphale felt more than saw a motion and glanced down. Crowley’s hand was outside of his pocket, his fingers flexing minutely. “Certainly, dear,” he said back, all focus of the world around him falling away. He took his hand and pushed the door open.

Crowley tensed as they stepped over the threshold, tightening his grip a fraction. “It looks fine, just as you said,” Aziraphale spoke quietly. He peered around the shop, then back at Crowley.

Crowley barely moved, yet his fingers twitched. “Was easier as you.” he said low, as if to himself. Then, after a moment, “it smells good in here.” He dropped Aziraphale’s hand and wiped his palm on his thigh.

“I tried to talk to God that night,” Aziraphale stated bluntly.

“Yeah? And?”

He shook his head. “No answer.”

Crowley chuffed. “And then burned down your shop. Classic. Someone said something about wine?”

“Ah yes…” Aziraphale took the opportunity to duck away to fetch drinks.

“We should fix that,” said Crowley. “Er. I think I left a bottle of Talisker here from last time. Assuming Adam put that right.”

“What should we fix?” Aziraphale asked, rummaging around. A half a bottle of whiskey was left, as was the wine. He poured them each a glass. 

“Get you some more wine.”

“Ah,” he stood and passed the glass over. “Well nothing that a trip down the street won’t fix.”

“No. France I mean.”

“You want to go to France?”

Crowley turned, taking his glass. “Sure… we can do whateverwewant.” He raised his eyebrows and held out his glass. Aziraphale, on instinct, clinked it with his own and took a sip. Crowley drank half of his in one slug. “What do you want to do?”

Aziraphale glanced around his bookshop, his insides sparkling a bit, and not just with the wine. “I think I would like to look around a bit. You said there were some new additions?”

Crowley swallowed the rest of his drink. “Yeah over in the other wing.” He was flopping down onto the sofa as Aziraphale left the bottles and walked away. 

What _did_ he want? He had to admit, he hadn’t let himself truly think about it. Most of the last decade had spent resolving not to have to think about it. And before that, well, the end was not yet nigh, and so his day-to-day operations had continued in such a fashion so as to put head office at ease, or at least keep them out of his hair. After he did a sweep of the ground floor, observing the new William books but nothing else out of the ordinary, he went to a shelf and started picking through the travel section. 

“Where would we go?” Crowley asked from across the room. “Tuscany? Bordeaux?”

“We?”

“Brushing up on your French?”

“No I mean… are you serious?” He leaned around the bookshelf. “Are you serious about wanting to go on holiday…. together?” 

Crowley sighed, sounding a bit peeved. “We literally put our lives of the line for each other. Of course I want to go on holiday with you.”

He ducked back down to rummage through the books so that he could do something with his hands. So that he could take a moment to think about how he was supposed to feel. Feel. He wasn’t supposed to feel. He was made to follow orders. This whole feeling thing. This whole freedom thing. It was… disconcerting.

“You have a problem with that?”

“I am not quite sure,” he began, “what I am meant to be doing now.”

“Whuja mean? You’re not meant to be doing anything. You’re your own boss.”

“Yes well, a bit new that.”

Crowley sat up from his slouch. “Like, what do you do? What were you doing?”

Aziraphale stood, now weighted down with an armload of books, and was thoughtful at this.

“Good,” he final said. “I was doing good.”

“Well then that's what you do. Just continue on.”

“And what about you? Will you continue to do evil? Like the humans do evil?”

“No!” he barked. “I, urm. No, that's not...” he shook his head. “Not like them. I mean, a bit. Now and again,” he paused thoughtfully, “keep in practice.” He took a sip. “Fucking off to wine country sounded like a good way to waste some time is all.”

“You know,” Aziraphale said. “Does it seem odd that Adam manifested this entire bookshop back into existence, but chose not to refill my wine cellar?”

“Or a full bottle of whiskey.” He tilted his head. “Or a full bottle of Ligur.”

They mulled that one over in silence, but seemed to decide it wasn’t up to them to determine the decisions of a pre-teen Antichrist.

The angel set the stack of books on the coffee table and picked up his wine. “Also, have you been purposely avoiding working miracles?” Crowley drew his head back. Aziraphale plopped down onto the sofa next to him and continued on. “I have. I think it might be a good idea not to draw any unwanted attention our way.”

Crowley looked as if he was going to counter that, but instead, his face fell into a frown. “That doesn’t sound like fun.” Then, after a beat. “We’d have to travel the human way. You have a passport, angel?”

“Of course not.” He took a long drink of his wine. “Do you think you should still call me that?”

Crowley, who’d been shifting over to the far end of the couch stopped moving. 

“Wh-- what?”

“I'm not really an angel anymore, am I?”

Crowley stiffened. “No, yes you are. What do you mean?”

Aziraphale sighed. He looked at Crowley, with his long legs wrapped in expensive leather pants, snakeskin footwear, dark jacket, dark glasses. “Principalities are meant to lead their platoons. I deserted.”

“Well, that’s just a job really.”

“A job, mind you, that I was literally created to fulfill. At least you tempted Eve. At least you did your job.”

“Ehhhh.” Crowely groaned. “Look I’m not getting into theological debates with you right now. It’s too late and you’re asking the wrong guy. Kicked out of heaven. Misnamed by hell." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. Flipped it open and pulled out a card. He shrugged helplessly. “I guess Earth is it.”

Aziraphale looked at the driver’s license that he hadn’t even known Crowley possessed. Read his full name. Anthony J. Crowley. “You... you are so much better at this than I.”

“You? No! I'm nothing. You're still something! You know what you are.”

“I.. I really don't I’m afraid.”

Crowley’s energy grew a little more strained as he argued. “Yeah. Where you belong! This bookshop!” He gestured grandly around him. “The restaurants. The park. Angel, please, let me at least have that. Your comfort is mine. Your strength I can draw upon. I...I'm an outcast. I’m an outcast-outcast.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. What did he say? Good grief, things were moving too fast again. He needed a moment to think. To rehearse. He looked down at the books he’d set on the table. A Little Tour in France by Henry James. Travels Through France and Italy by Tobias Smollett. Pictures from Italy by Dickens. Nothing even from this century.

He didn’t have a passport. He didn’t have a driver’s card. He didn’t even have a first name. The thought caught him by surprise. Hopeless. Nothing he could possibly practice for or plan would be enough. He had to admit – to submit – to the fact that he didn’t know. He couldn’t know.

He wasn’t just trying to row upstream against the current; it was a laugh to even imagine he had oars.

“What are we to do?” he said. “I’m not prepared for this.”

“That’s alright,” Crowly said, trying to bring his anxiety down a notch. “Hey. Hey.”

Aziraphale looked up, unsure of what was coming next. He watched as Crowley removed his glasses one-handed. Oh, how he wanted to lose himself in those eyes. Those wondrous eyes. 

“I know only one thing right now,” Crowley said, his gaze not wavering. “The only place I know I belong, is here. Can we…. can we start with that?”

And Aziraphale felt it. Like a lightning bolt that struck on the downbeat of his heart, like a pure clear note. He felt it, and he knew what was real.

He reached out and laid his hand flat on Crowley’s chest.

“I don’t know what to say,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley reached up and grasped his wrist, holding him there. “Don’t have to say anything.”

And so Aziraphale kissed him.

With no words left - or not the right words - with the complicated unending confusion of all, he resorted to the base, core, wordless, physicality of humanity and kissed him.

It wasn’t long lived, no, not the first kiss. But it was just that. A first kiss. He drew back almost immediately, shocked by his own audacity. But Crowley didn’t let him pause for long. He barely had time to register the sound of sunglasses falling to the floor before Crowley brought his free hand up to cup his cheek and ease him into a longer, deeper motion. He pulled him forward, guiding him back to his lips for a second kiss. And a third, and enough soon that they lost count.

Aziraphale reached up to touch him, to emulate the affectionate embrace but couldn’t quite figure what was supposed to go where as far as limbs were concerned. It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever kissed before.

But he’d never kissed Crowley before.

He had barely ever even allowed himself the luxury to imagine such a thing. And now he’d run head-long into it, skipping fantasy and barreling like a runaway freight train into the reality of declaring this… this... oh fuck, stop thinking.

His fingers finally found direction to the nape of Crowley’s neck and drew up into the soft sweep of his hair, and yes, it was so soft. Sinfully so, and Aziraphale moaned, his lips barely parting. 

Crowley spoke into the split of his lips. “Angel. Oh, angel.”

Aziraphale was leaning forward, and it took little work on Crowley’s part to tip him over the top, pulling him further into the embrace until his body was laid like a quilt across the demon’s form. Crowley writhed and wriggled and squirmed until he was completely beneath him, pressed into the cushions of the unable-to-be-miracled-larger-dash-it-all couch. Aziraphale tried to pull back, but Crowley held him tight and whispered, “no, please. Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, “oh I won’t.”

And they held each other then. In the new reality. In the what would now be. And there would be words to be said, discussions had, plans made, hope sprung. But for now, for tonight, they would exist in each other’s grace, and know that it was real.  
  


\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a couple of things I tried that didn't fit into this fic, but I still like them so have posted them to my drabble collection. [One more specifically references the title and can be read here as a stand-alone scene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927907/chapters/52597777#workskin) (probably set sometime in the future). 
> 
> This is part one of a series and sets the stage of their relationship for the next one. Thank you all so much for reading! If you enjoyed any bit of this, kudos or comments much appreciated! (They make my little heart sing!)
> 
> Please come [talk to me on Tumblr](https://suvroc.tumblr.com/) :)


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